Say Something
by smacky30
Summary: What would happen if Emily was pregnant? Hints for 3x15 and 4x17.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not Mine.

A/N: Many, many thanks to mingsmommy and losingntrnslatn for all their help and patience. I've really needed both this week.

Her eyes in the steamy mirror are huge, disbelief written so clearly on her face even a blind man could see it. Her hand is shaking so hard that the stupid plastic stick clatters into the sink. Slowly, her muscles barely responding to her brain's instructions, she sits on the edge of the tub.

_How the hell did this happen?_ Barking out a laugh, she shakes her head. She knows how it happened. She's not stupid…far from it actually. Which makes it even harder to believe.

"Emily?" The knock on the door startles her and she has to grip the edge of the tub to keep from falling.

Scrambling to her feet, she pushes her hair off her face and calls out, "Just a minute." Even to her own ears the words sound strained, tinny.

He pauses. Through the door, she can almost feel his eyes on her. She can see the questioning tilt to his head and the furrows in his brow that say he's sure something isn't right. "All right. I'll go start the coffee."

She hears him pad away. There is an ache in her chest and a roiling nausea in her gut. She chokes back a sob, fighting furiously against the tears swimming in her eyes. Glancing in the mirror again, she sees that the end of her nose is red and curses her fair skin.

_Shit, shit, shit, shit. He'll think you've been crying if he sees you like this, Prentiss, so suck it up. Suck. It. Up._

With a shuddering breath, she clenches her eyes shut and counts to ten, then to twenty. When she opens them, the face staring back at her is pale and panicked. And she's not sure that's any better. But if she stays in the bathroom any longer, he's going to come back. Reluctantly, she slips into the sweats and t-shirt she brought in with her. Pulling her wet hair up into a clip, she opens the door.

Her bedroom smells like Dave, something earthy and rich underscored by the clean scent of his cologne. She fights back another sob as she pictures him there asleep, sheets bunched around his narrow hips, his hair sticking up in a bad imitation of a Mohawk. Right then and there she realizes how accustomed she is to sharing her bed with him. Not just having sex with him, but waking up with the heat and scent of his body surrounding her. And now, unless that fucking pink plus sign was wrong, everything could be on the line.

Methodically, she begins to make the bed, straightening the sheets and fluffing the pillows until all evidence of the two of them has been eradicated. With a last lingering look, she goes down stairs to find Rossi.

The smell of coffee and bacon mingles on the air and Emily feels her stomach do a slow flip. She pauses and takes a deep breath, forcing the nausea down, wondering fleetingly if it's morning sickness or nerves. Considering they've never talked about children, theirs or anyone else's, she's pretty sure the sick feeling is coming from her uncertainty over his reaction. Smoothing her damp palms over her legs, she plasters a smile on her face and heads for the kitchen.

Rossi, wearing a t-shirt and those adorable blue and white striped boxers she loves, is standing over the stove turning bacon in a frying pan. He is barefoot and tousled with a cup of coffee in one hand and a fork in the other. In her eyes, he's never looked better. Or more frightening.

"Morning." Emily moves to the coffee pot, a thought niggles at her mind about caffeine and fetuses, but she figures she can start worrying about that tomorrow. Right now she has bigger fish to fry.

Throwing her a look over his shoulder, Dave gives her a quick smile. "Hey."

Her hands tremble as she pours coffee into the cup he set out for her. Adding sweetener, she takes her time stirring, watching as the spoon creates a vortex in the steaming liquid. Her mind is racing, thoughts careening through her cerebrum at an alarming rate. First and foremost, though, is how to break the news.

_Mmmmmmm. Bacon smells good. Junior's starving._

_Love the way those boxers make your ass look. Wonder if that has anything to do with me being pregnant?_

_Can we have eggs too? Pregnant women need a lot of protein. _

As usual, her first response to the stress is sarcasm. But she knows that she can't break the news like that. This is too important.

"Emily?" His voice, loud and a little impatient, breaks through the fog, startling her.

Turning, she sees him watching her, his eyes narrowed in that way he has when he's puzzling something out.

"What's going on?" It's a question that borders on something harsher.

She can feel a blush heating her cheeks. "Nothing," she lifts the cup to her lips and takes a sip.

He turns back to the stove, but not before she sees his eyebrow shoot toward his hairline. "I was going to ask if you'd take care of the toast."

"Sure." Setting her cup to the side, she moves around the kitchen, pulling out the bread and popping it in the toaster. While she's waiting on that to finish, she takes out plates and silverware and lays them out on the breakfast bar. Then goes to the fridge and grabs a container of fruit and the blackberry jam she knows Dave likes. When the toast pops up, she stacks it neatly and cuts it in half on the diagonal because that's how she's always liked it and right now she needs something good, something safe.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"You're not eating." he points out, with a wave of his fork. He's watched her push food around her plate and nibble on a slice of toast for the past fifteen minutes.

With a guilty glance in his direction, she pops a grape in her mouth and chews very deliberately.

Quietly, calmly, he lays his fork down. "Okay. Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"

This time it's a bite of bacon, her teeth snapping it off so sharply he hears it crunch. She pushes her bangs off her forehead. Now a chunk of pineapple makes her cheek bulge out a little. Still, she doesn't speak.

"Emily," he reaches out and stops her hand halfway to her mouth, "I thought we were past this." He chuckles as the nerves begin to flutter in his stomach. "Actually, I don't remember it ever being like this."

She's trembling. Underneath his hand, her arm is shaking. Looking at her, really looking, he sees how pale she is, the smattering of freckles across her nose standing out in stark relief, her eyes huge and stormy. And he begins to wonder if he can take back his questions and pretend nothing is wrong.

"Like what?"

She tries for nonchalance. If he were anyone else, she might even pull it off. But he's been reading people for far too long to ever fall for it, especially from her. "Just tell me what's going on."

She drops her head, chin against her chest, eyes closed. "I'm pregnant." It's a whisper, a sigh, a trembling of her vocal chords.

And he can't breathe. There isn't enough air in the room. He can't breathe or think or feel. He is numb. Shocked. He knows he should say something, but he can't even begin to think of what that should be. He just sits there, staring at her profile, with his mind blank. Hundreds of thousands of words written down and sold to anybody interested in reading them and he can't even string together a sentence.

Then his brain kicks in. _Fuck, _echoes loudly through the otherwise empty space_._ If he could remember how, he might even laugh at his own creativity.

"Say something." Emily turns to look at him. "Anything."

_I'm too old to be a father._

With a quick shake of his head, he stands and carries his plate to the sink. Automatically, he scrapes away his uneaten breakfast and turns on the disposal to get rid of the evidence. "How long have you known?"

_I'm not ready for this. I've _never_ been ready for this._

She glances up at the clock on the wall. "Twenty-six minutes."

"Emily, I don't know what to say. I wish I did." He hears the words come out, calm and detached. Nothing like what's going on inside him where everything is jumbled together in a boiling miasma.

_A baby? His baby?_

Now she looks at him, her eyes glassy with tears. And he wonders if she can see the fear and anger swirling through his mind.

"How did this happen?" He spits the words out, each one bitter in his mouth.

With a sad smile, she shrugs. "The usual way."

"I know _how _it happened." His head is beginning to pound in time with his heart. "There are reasons I don't have children."

Anger turns her cheeks red and sparks from her eyes. But she's also curious; he can see it in the tilt of her head, the way she leans forward. "Talk to me."

He's shaking his head before she even finishes the sentence. "Let's just say they are valid reasons, and leave it at that."

She stares at him, this woman who has shared his bed, his life, for over a year now. "Are you saying you don't want this baby?"

His hands are gripping the edge of the sink, the knuckles white with strain. "I don't know what I'm saying right now."

"You know, I've been here before." He can see the remembered pain swimming in her eyes. "But I'm old enough now to know what I want."

Shame floods through him. For all his talk since her confession, he's no better than John. And he's not fifteen. He can't even use that as an excuse.

"I think you should go." There is sadness and resignation and a quiet dignity in her tone. Never has she said so much by saying so little.

"Wait…" His words stumble to a halt. He's still unsure of what she wants to hear, what she needs to hear. "I…"

Standing, straightening to her full height, she appears almost regal. "I'm going for a walk. Lock the door when you go, please."

Hearing the door close quietly behind her, the ache in his chest is only overshadowed by the pounding in his head. He clears away her plate and heads upstairs to dress.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Many thanks to mingsmommy and losingntrnslatn. They are made of awesome.

It's been three weeks. Three weeks without a case that needs them to be anywhere but in the office. Three weeks of strained politeness between her and Rossi and a serious lack of coffee. There are days Emily is sure the consumption of caffeine can't be any worse for the baby than the withdrawals. But the headaches are diminishing and her appetite is increasing and she's become a pro at dancing around JJ's questions and Morgan's odd looks. She's also gotten pretty good at playing 'avoid David Rossi'.

She misses him. More than she could've imagined, she misses him. The ache in her chest when she catches him watching her broodingly from his office tells her just how easy it would be to go to him on his terms, whatever they might be. But every time she closes her eyes, she sees him there in her kitchen with something angry and hurt in his eyes, and her battered resolve strengthens.

When the call out comes, she's elated. At least she'll get to do something besides sit and think. _Nothing like a serial rapist_ _to take your mind off your own problems, _she thinks as she follows the rest of the team across the tarmac. She settles into her seat and closes her eyes as the engines begin to whine.

He drops into the seat next to her and hands her a file. "We need to talk."

Now she realizes her mistake. There is no way to avoid him now. With a quiet sigh of resignation, she flips open the file and sees his notes from JJ's presentation. "About this?"

"Don't try to be obtuse, Emily. It doesn't suit you."

She dips her head, rubbing her lips together. "You're right." Looking up, she holds his gaze. "But not here. It's neither the time nor the place."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, looking for all the world like he's deep in thought, he sucks in a long breath. "How have you been?"

A sip of water clears her dry throat. She hasn't been this nervous around him since the first time he walked into the BAU. "You see me every day. You know I'm fine." She smiles at him, but doesn't meet his gaze. He can read her like a book and she knows what he'll see if he looks into her eyes. The truth. He'll see that she's scared and lonely and that is something she doesn't want him to know.

He leans over and his shoulder brushes hers. She can't suppress a shiver of awareness. If he notices, and let's be honest, he notices, he doesn't say anything. "Can I at least say I'm sorry?"

She nods, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Plucking at the label on her water bottle, she fights against the urge to climb into his lap and ask him to hold her. Finally, after a pause that he doesn't seem eager to fill, she nods again. "Me, too." And for a moment she's not sure which part of the whole situation she's apologizing for.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

They've been in Syracuse for ten days. And Emily is tired. Between the stress and the hormones and Dave's constant questioning about how she feels she's ready to explode. So, when she sees him sitting in the lobby of the hotel she almost turns around and heads back to work.

Straightening her shoulders tucking her hair behind her ears, she heads over to where he's sitting.

"Hi," she says, shrugging her bag up higher on her shoulder.

He's standing now, his body just a little too close to hers. Not so close as to suggest impropriety, but close enough that she can smell him, spicy and masculine. And her insides tremble just a little.

"I was hoping you'd let me buy you dinner." He watches her, his dark eyes searching her face for something she's probably too exhausted to hide. "We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. Just a meal."

"Don't you mean anything _you_ don't want to talk about?" He frowns and she shakes her head. "Okay. Just let me drop this in my room."

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The ride to the tiny Greek restaurant was an exercise in awkwardness. Now, he's cocooned in a high-backed, dimly lit booth with Emily. And he still doesn't know what to say or do. So, he studies her over the top of his menu, and prays they can get through this like two adults.

Once the waiter takes their order and disappears with the menus, he takes a sip of his wine. "How are you?"

She chuffs out a laugh. "You've asked me that three times today already. I'm fine."

But she doesn't look fine. She looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes. "I just want to make sure. We're under a lot of stress and the hours are long."

"I can handle the hours." The words are clipped and her eyes flash angrily in the candlelight.

"Okay." Slowly, he runs a hand over his mouth, smoothing his goatee, searching for a safe topic. "So, have you told Hotch?"

She shakes her head, her hair slipping over her shoulders, catching the flickering candlelight. "No. I don't have any idea how to explain it." Then she nails him with a look, one he's seen her use during interrogations. "What do you think I should tell him?"

The waiter saves him; setting plates in front of each of them, fussing over refilling Emily's water, making sure they have everything they need. When he's gone, they eat in silence. He watches, a little bemused, as she consumes more food than he's ever seen her eat in a day. When she pushes her plate away and sits back, he can't stop his smile.

"Did you…um…want dessert?" He grins at her when she shoots him a glare and shakes her head. "Coffee?"

"No. I don't like decaf so I'll just do without." She is twisting her napkin into a knot and he can tell she's nervous again.

Suppressing a sigh, he motions for the waiter. "Let's get out of here."

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

His hand on the small of her back, he guides her into the elevator. Once the doors close, the scent of her perfume teases him, reminding him of everything he's missing. When the doors open and he steps out behind her, she shoots him a questioning look.

"I wouldn't be a gentleman if I didn't walk you to your room." He grins at her and let's his hand find her back once again, loving the feel of her firm muscles moving just under the cotton of her shirt.

When they reach the door, she turns to face him. "Thank you. For dinner."

He reaches for her hand but she pulls away, and that one gesture tells him what three weeks of her avoiding him hadn't. "My God, I've really fucked this up, haven't I?" He runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the sudden panic in his chest.

"Dave, I…," she begins, then seems to think better of it. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Emily." He leans down and brushes his lips over hers. More a reflex than anything else. But he sees something in her eyes, senses something in the way she leans into him, something that tells him she's missed him just as much as he's missed her, that she needs him just as much as he needs her. And he throws caution to the wind, kissing her again the way he kissed her a month ago, before the baby and the absolute madness that followed.

She's kissing him back, her lips soft and pliant under his. She tastes like the peppermint she picked up on the way out of the restaurant and he can't get enough. Her tongue slips past his lips and she groans and he needs to get her inside the room before somebody sees them. Pulling back, he takes the key from her and opens the door. Then she's taking his hand and they're inside with the rest of the world locked out.

Tugging at her shirt, he lifts it over her head and takes a second to look at her. Her lips are swollen and her fingers are fumbling with the button on her slacks and she's looking at him like she wants to swallow him whole.

Somehow, and he's not sure how, they're naked on the bed and she's all soft, warm skin against him. Her breasts seem fuller, heavier and he thinks fleetingly of all the changes her body is going to go through for the child she carries. For his child. For _their_ child.

Suddenly the wildness dissipates and tenderness races in. He cradles her face in his hands and his mouth skims over her features. Her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks. She's so beautiful. More beautiful than any woman he knows. And he feels an ache in the center of his chest, a flood of emotion unlike any he's experienced before. Protectiveness and desire in a combination that tells him he's in more trouble than he ever imagined.

Shifting, he settles between her thighs. She seems to sense the change in his mood and her frantic caresses have become something different, something soothing. He watches her face as he enters her. Watches as her eyes slowly close and her lips tip up in a smile. When he's buried inside her, he rests his forehead on hers and simply breathes.

"This doesn't change things," she murmurs after a while, her breath ghosting warm over his lips.

"Emily, I…" He lifts his head and draws in a shuddering breath, hoping that she understands what she does to him, what he isn't quite ready to say.

Her eyes find his in the shadows and once again she gives him a ghost of a smile. She presses her lips to his and he begins to move. Long, slow strokes in and out of her heat, while her arms and legs wrap around him and she moans against his ear. Long, slow kisses that say more than any words ever could. He is lost in her.

Time stretches out around them, elastic and ever changing. The seconds become minutes and he is holding onto his control by a thread. Emily is whimpering now, her hips arching up to meet his as he moves inside her, and he knows she's close. Working a hand between them, he slips his thumb over her clit and feels her whole body jerk in response. With a gentle press of his thumb and the scrape of his teeth along her throat she lets go, her body pulsing around his. Her fingers are in his hair and she's kissing him, groaning out her pleasure, even as he explodes.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

They are lying face to face, snuggled under the covers, legs entwined. He toys with her hair, letting the strands run through his fingers, loving the feel of them against his skin.

"I was twelve when my father died." The words stick in his throat. He hasn't talked about this in longer than he can remember. Her hand is on his chest, over his heart, holding him together. "Actually, he committed suicide." She winces and he can see the sympathy in her eyes. "Don't," he says before she can speak. "It was a long time ago."

"Doesn't make it hurt any less." She says softly, wistfully, and he wonders if she's thinking of her own father and their estrangement.

"True." He brushes a finger along her cheek. "He was a hard man, my father. Tough. Demanding. Not a lot of time or patience for a kid who wasn't good with his hands." He pauses, his mind reaching back through those memories. "Not the kind of man who said 'I love you'."

"Oh, Dave," she whispers and he can hear the sadness, see it in the way she watches him. "I'm so sorry."

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, taking comfort in her strength, in the warmth of her. "Me too. For a lot of things.

"I told you there were reasons I don't have children. But there's really only one. I don't know how to be a father. I never had much of a role model." He chuckles, a rueful sound in the stillness of the room. "I never planned _not_ to have kids. It just never happened. And, after a while, I figured it was for the best."

He falls silent then, listening to the sound of her breathing, to the quiet hum of the air conditioner. To her credit, Emily doesn't try to reassure him or offer him inane platitudes. She just holds him, her face pressed to the base of his throat, her heart slow and steady against his.

"The thing is," he finally breaks the silence, "I want to try."

She stiffens and pulls away. He can see her eyes searching his, looking for the truth. "What does that mean?"

He chuckles. "I should've known you wouldn't let me off the hook that easily." He leans forward, pressing his lips to hers. Then in a whisper, he says, "Let's have a baby, Emily. Our baby."


End file.
